Star Wars: Voices from H-Prime
by VGorfek
Summary: R'ala, a freelance slicer, tries to focus on a less-than-pleasant mission as she recalls a face she once saw. Glyn, R'ala's ex-mate and the daughter of a Theelin warrior, battles inertia and nostalgia as she oversees criminal dealings on Haidoral Prime. Their tales weave together and apart as they deal with bounty hunters, betrayal, and the lives they never thought they'd have.
1. Chapter 1: Bakura Girl

**Bakura Girl**

R'ala listens to the familiar thrum of the shuttle's engines as it goes through the landing cycle. She compulsively sets her palm on the grip of the blaster on her left hip, then does the same with the one on the right. For some reason, instead of the mission, she thinks of the girl she saw at Pog's Station on Bakura a few standard years back. Pale skin dabbed with freckles, a rope of charcoal hair, a vague smile in R'ala's direction. R'ala had never been sure whether the smile was directed at her, though; the girl had just scored a sack of old speeder parts she seemed to have been desperate to get. Bosch and the two Dresellians (new to the crew – R'ala hasn't learned their names) pace the breadth of the shuttle while R'ala sits, bent forward, elbows on knees. The girl's face disappears from her mind.

"I don't really want to get spaced when you wear a hole in the floor," she says to Bosch.

"Quiet until this is over, Miri," Bosch says. "These guys have probably picked up our signature already. I don't need them knowing how many of us there are, too."

To be fair, Bosch and the Dresellians don't know R'ala's name, either. Bosch is an old vet who claims to have fought for a Rebel infiltration team during the time of the second Death Star, but that's most of what she knows about him. He's spent the last twenty-five years hiring temporary crews to lift valuable objects for various collectors, never keeping the same crew for too long. This is their fifth mission together. He hired her after a five-minute interview, during which he asked how she managed to balance a healthy social life, top marks in Chandrila's New Futures program, and an independent gig as a slicer. _Well_ , she thought to herself, _it's amazing what you can accomplish if you're a strong enough liar_.

The shuttle settles down on the moon's surface. If R'ala is lucky, she won't have to draw the blasters she keeps making sure are still there. Or maybe she just tells herself that the violence doesn't put a ripple in her blood. Her job on these missions is to slice into security systems, unlock what's locked, and repair weapons. Bosch's crew always look at her with some kind of pity, as though she, now Bosch's longest-standing freelancer, is the expendable one.

 _Tell that to the Rodian who tried to disable a power coupling by himself last time_ , she thinks. There's a reason she stopped learning the names of the newbies after a month.

Bosch gives the signal, and the hatch lurches open. The fog is thick. The two Dresellians, with their long-barreled rifles, take point. There's nothing for a hundred meters, though; R'ala knows that without even looking outside. She studied the schematics of the Zerta facility before the hyperspace jump: two floors, an entrance in the front and in the rear, one stairwell leaning to the simple office overseeing the work floor. A landing zone atop the building with room enough for three small shuttles. A simple terminal at the entrance. If she works her magic well enough, that terminal will grant access to every room in the building, including the one that holds the prize.

R'ala descends the shuttle ramp last; Tevix, the Zabrak pilot, stays aboard. R'ala's boots hit the moon's surface, and even after all the traveling she's done on the Outer Rim, a sense of wonder still rushes through her, the idea that she's standing somewhere she's never stood, and maybe that no one else has, either.

The Zerta building rests in front of them, a blue glow emanating from the upper windows. It looks almost unsuspecting, which puts R'ala on edge. They must have picked up the shuttle on their scanners by now.

All is still quiet by the time the group reaches the terminal at the front entrance; there isn't even the rattle of workers inside. "No welcome party," Bosch says, resting his blaster rifle on his shoulder. "Not very polite."

"Yeah," R'ala says, already tapping keys with gloved fingers. "It's almost as if they don't want us here."

Security is minimal. R'ala blazes through the building's protections, starting with the simple code on the front door. "Going in," Bosch says when the door slides open with a satisfying _shiff_. The Dresellians, rifles at the ready, follow.

R'ala tracks their positions via the terminal, watching Bosch and crew make their way through the complex. "Let's go upstairs," she says to herself, easily slicing into the office door. "Bet that's where the boss is. Bet he'll tell us where something else is, too."

The client hasn't told the crew what exactly they're retrieving for him, but they know what the container looks like: a plasteel footlocker with the Old Republic's insignia on it. R'ala assumes it has nothing to do with the Republic itself – maybe some kind of memento – but since she's getting a cool cut of the pay, it's none of her business.

"Miri," Bosch's voice pops in over the comm. "There's another door in front of me. Why isn't it open?"

"They must have encrypted it separately," she says. "That's probably the room we want."

"Should I persuade the overseer to give us the code? The Dresellians locked him in the office just now, so he isn't exactly busy."

"No," R'ala says. "I'll take care of it. Any resistance inside?"

"Nothing. Either someone doesn't care about protecting their investment, or they never thought they'd be bothered here."

"Or they can't afford a security detail," R'ala says. "Zerta isn't a corporation, Bosch. Look at this place. They probably have a few locations in the system, and that's it."

"I hope you're not trying to make me feel bad."

"Oh, never."

"Just open the door."

R'ala taps a few lines of code and pulls a custom computer spike out of her satchel. She carefully attaches it to the terminal's input drive and unleashes it on the complex's security system. There's a ruffle of clothing behind her. She isn't fast enough to draw a weapon on whoever it is, so she slowly turns her head.

Two men dressed in gearhead garb with Zerta patches on the chests stand several feet away, small blasters drawn. _The back exit. Of course_. One, a young Rodian, says something R'ala cannot understand. The human, balding with a bushy brown mustache, follows her head with his blaster, his hand shaking.

"We're not here to put anyone out of a job," R'ala says.

"Could have fooled me," the human says. "Those blasters on your hips haven't existed in a thousand years, not in any sector I know of."

"They're replicas. No one's here to hurt anybody." R'ala turns her body toward them, hands raised in surrender.

"The artillery your buddies are carrying? They're replicas too, then?"

"I'm telling you," R'ala says, "you don't want to do this. We'll be out of here in a few minutes. We're just picking up something that belongs to a friend of ours."

The human isn't buying it. "Remove the computer spike."

"'Fraid I can't do that."

The man tightens his grip on the blaster. The Rodian copies him.

"I don't want to shoot you, girl."

"It seems like you do." R'ala feels a bubble in her chest. "Listen," she says. "What's your name?"

"Quiet," he says. "Just stay put."

Bosch's voice crackles over the comm again. "Miri, bad situation. How long until we're in?"

 _Thirty seconds_ , she wants to say, but she can't answer him now, or this pair of would-be gunslingers will know exactly how long she needs to stall them. She keeps eye contact with the human and addresses him again. Hopefully the workers inside haven't found weapons and strong nerves as well. "Maybe your friend will let me explain."

The human's eyes wander over to the Rodian. "Peevlah," he says, "turn your translator on."

The Rodian fiddles with something behind his ear. "This is the third raid since we started working here," he says. "We're not sitting still this time. Someone needs to be made an example of."

"The raids weren't us," R'ala says.

"I don't care." Peevlah's green finger floats over the trigger of the tiny blaster. He's resolved to shoot her. "First we're working for some Senate splinter group. Then we're producing for the Niktos. Always providing for people who have enemies."

The math is easy enough to do. These guys are helpless here, lashing out now, like anyone would.

"I'm sorry it has to be you," Peevlah adds. "Goodbye."

The part she told Bosch about the New Futures program is almost true. Living in the lower parts of Nayli, between the slums and the metropolis, R'ala had few opportunities. Her mother, supporting two daughters alone, fumbled around their tiny kitchen after trudging in from work, preparing dinner with her eyes halfway shut. R'ala wanted to help then, to do something more than put together meals when her mother had to work all night. But her mother would just tell her to use her head.

New Futures brought R'ala in on a scholarship, but after one term of top marks, it had all seemed too easy. After she met Glyn, the travel bug got hold of her, and they pooled their credits for a small starship. They educated themselves through adventure: perusing the libraries of Obroa-skai, screaming Greer Sonnel's name at the Gauntlet on Pamarthe, even indulging in the pleasures of Twi'lek women on Coruscant when they fell on the right side of a bet. R'ala still can't pinpoint where it all went wrong, but she and Glyn eventually parted ways, and she never did make it back to her mother.

Now, when she feels vulnerable, she doesn't think about what home means to her, or what her mother is up to, or what it would be like to sit in the kitchen again and say she's sorry. It used to be her mother's face she would call into her mind before an interview or a mission, but her mind has begun to conflate it with other faces. The only one she remembers clearly is the girl in Pog's Station, the freckled Bakuran who may have smiled her way, her own little lost star, just as R'ala is someone else's.

Peevlah looks to the human, and R'ala realizes that he doesn't want to kill R'ala himself. In the moment of hesitation before the human raises his blaster, R'ala whips hers from her right hip, the N-101, which shreds into the man's chest with a flurry of bolts. He hits the ground like a dry sack. R'ala spins to face the Rodian, who has dropped his pistol and fallen to his knees in the cacophony. He's probably never seen anyone killed before.

"Please," he says, hands on his head, "don't."

She crouches and meets his eyes. "Listen," she says. He's shuddering and trying to cover his face. "Hey. Stay with me." He quickly composes himself, probably thinking she'll shoot him if he doesn't. "I envy you," R'ala says. "There was a time when I would have reacted like that. Have a good sob, get a terrible night's sleep, then go back to work in the morning." She waits. He should become indignant now, call her a killer. But he stays silent.

"Stand up," she says, "and pick up your blaster. Go home with some dignity. Think about what an interesting shift you're going to have tomorrow. I promise, Peevlah: this isn't that bad. Your life is okay."

The Rodian seems to understand. He scoops up his pistol.

"What will you – "

R'ala hears the sudden hum of a vibroblade. Tevix, Bosch's pilot, emerges from the fog behind Peevlah, and before R'ala can call out, sticks the blade under the Rodian's arm. She covers his mouth with the heel of her hand, and it's soon over.

Tevix drops the body and grins at R'ala, her skull-spines glowing blue in the facility's artificial light.

"Having an off-day?" the Zabrak says.

"He wasn't going to attack me."

Tevix shrugs. "So?"

The Dresellians emerge from the door, each holding one end of a plasteel footlocker. They step between the bodies as if they don't see them, as if they don't notice R'ala's white-knuckle grip on her blaster, Tevix's still-humming vibroblade.

Bosch soon follows, rifle on shoulder.

"Well," he says, amused, "I was going to complain about a single brave employee popping off a shot at us before coming to his senses, but I now see it's not going to have the intended effect."

R'ala holsters her N-101 and takes one last look at the bodies. "Let's just get out of here."

She waits for Bosch to go, then walks alongside Tevix. She asks the Zabrak why she did it.

"Maybe because I care about whether you die," she says. "Or maybe I was bored."

R'ala says nothing.

"C'mon, Miri," Tevix goes on, "it's the first one. If all I cared about was money, why would I bother saving you? Fewer crew, bigger cut."

R'ala keeps her eyes fixed on the ground. Tevix is barefoot, which means she was always planning on killing Peevlah: she wouldn't have been able to move so silently with her clunky boots on.

The shuttle appears through the fog veil, and Tevix's hand grips R'ala's.

"We're nominating you to deliver the payload to the client," Tevix says. "You're the best with people."

As Tevix speaks and R'ala feels the squeeze of her fingers, everything about the woman becomes instantly alien. R'ala closes her eyes and imagines those fingers belong to a girl with braided charcoal hair and a used sensor array under her arm. She imagines the nearest planet to this moon, how people must be looking up at it now, marveling at the glow, imagining the possibilities.

Then her boots hit the shuttle ramp, and the engines begin to roar.


	2. Chapter 2: Home

**Home**

R'ala reclined in her little apartment on Haidoral Prime, gazing out at the flickering metropolis. She much preferred the rough frontier worlds of the Outer Rim, where people did real work, never took more than what they needed, and appreciated what they had. She and Glyn had once traveled to Sullust just to take holovids of ash angels, and although she'd met Sullustans before (the most notable of which she'd accidentally shoulder-checked in a Chandrila bar after drinking five ice blasters), she hadn't seen them in their element: constant creation. Droids, speeders, ships, sensors, weapons. They moved about with their big marble eyes, jowl flaps working as they relayed orders to subordinates. It was a life R'ala could respect. Here, though, in the Mid Rim and closer to the Core, there was nary a world whereupon life itself didn't revolve around the big cities, with their politics, entitlement, and finery. Sure, R'ala had indulged a few times in her life, but the frivolity of places like Haidoral Prime was almost vulgar, as if they weren't even aware of the rest of the galaxy.

She crossed one bare foot over the other, gazing out at the city's night market while she waited to receive a signal from the contact. The plasteel footlocker lay in the corner of the room, under R'ala's N-101 Rampage blaster, which she'd built herself based on Old Republic designs, and which had, just a standard day earlier, pumped several rounds into a man's chest. Not her first kill, not by a long shot, but she hadn't particularly wanted to squeeze the trigger this time.

CC-7, R'ala's old RA-model protocol droid, shuffled into the room. "Miss R'ala," he said, "your presence has been requested at the tower."

"Thanks, CeeCee."

She polished off her drink, blew out a hard breath, and crossed the room to where her clothes were waiting. Before pulling on the posh dress she'd acquired for the occasion, she reached for the dura-mesh armor she'd be wearing beneath it.

A Theelin woman sat behind Vexen Tower's reception desk, keeping eyes on eight separate holoscreens and the front door. Her neon red hair sat bundled beneath the helmet all employees were required to wear, their faces invisible behind a visor to give the impression that they were all just part of the machinery that made this place work. The tower used to be a popular meeting point for the New Republic's Centrist senators when they were still pretending to have the galaxy's best interests – or _any_ of its interests, really – in mind, but now it was a comfortable place for wealthy beings to perform their shadiest dealings among the most lavish surroundings.

The woman glanced at the list of recently-arrived guests: _The Master_ , _Client 5_ , _Mustafar Max_. They always did this. Regardless of how untouchable they were, the types who stayed here were cautious enough not to leave hints for anyone.

R'ala's shuttle made its way through the maze of sky traffic immersed in the city's subterranean blue glow. It left her at the far end of a bridge that led to Vexen Tower, where Bosch's client was waiting to receive his prize. The footlocker, resting on a small hoverlift, followed R'ala across the long bridge, pushed by a droid.

A security detail – a real one, not like the pathetic grunts that passed for security at the Zerta facility – served as guardrails along either side of the bridge. _Huh_ , she thought. Maybe I have a _reputation_.

The tower's lobby was nicer than any place R'ala had ever lived. The security captain, covered in the same black helmet and armor as the rest of them but with a yellow shield on the chest, tilted her head toward reception. R'ala obeyed the command, and the droid remained behind her with the footlocker, the noise of its joints the only sound punctuating the silence.

The receptionist also wore the spherical black helmet, and seemed to be staring straight at R'ala, though the eyes were invisible. R'ala briefly thought the woman might be a droid.

"Hi," R'ala said.

The receptionist said nothing. If she was a droid, she should probably be sent to maintenance.

R'ala continued: "I'm here for Client 5."

The receptionist snapped to life. "Yes. Name?"

"Miri."

She slid one gloved finger across a holoscreen that R'ala couldn't see. "Follow Captain Shardi and do not wander."

All the military-style formality amused R'ala, but she tried not to let it show. She gave a mock salute, then turned back to the officer with the yellow shield on the breastplate.

"Nice dress," the officer said to R'ala. "Hope you're not hiding anything that might set off our scanners. It's a bit of a pain to calm them down once they start spewing lasers."

Rigid formalities. Fake threats. Hardboiled laconics. R'ala had probably done this waltz more times than the captain had.

"After you," R'ala said.

"No," said Captain Shardi. "I insist."

They entered a nearby lift – R'ala, Shardi, two armored officers with matching black helmets and blaster rifles, and the droid with the footlocker.

"I notice," said R'ala, "that you boys are outfitted with the old I-707 rifles that used to be standard issue for H-Prime's military. Upau Expeditions came out with a new model a standard year ago, you know."

As the door shut itself with a hum, Shardi punched a code into the lift's computer and said, "It is policy for visitors to remain silent on the lifts."

The lift groaned, and up they went.

The officers led R'ala through a glass double-door into Client 5's room. The tower still used swinging doors, probably for effect: guests here liked to feel like they had things nobody else had, even if those things were useless.

A bald human with a goatee leaned against a chair that looked like it was designed for a Wookiee. Alongside him, a Bith bodyguard stood tall, a hefty blaster clutched in his fist. R'ala had been checked for weapons seven times since leaving her flat. How did this guy bring that kind of heat in here?

That was the first question R'ala asked when the human greeted her.

"Our boss paid a lot for this room," the human said. "It's funny: the more credits you shovel their way, the more regulations suddenly become negotiable." He rubbed his goatee. These two were pissing R'ala off already.

"Your boss, you say," R'ala said. It was then she heard the door behind her latch shut. Security had left her to deal with this alone. After all, it was none of their business, and Client 5 surely wouldn't have wanted anyone to hear the details.

"Name's Garr," said the human.

"Sure it is," said R'ala.

Garr smiled with half of his mouth. "Whatever you say, _Miri_." He gestured at the Bith. "This is F'tudal."

The Bith nodded.

R'ala smirked. "He your grav-ball teammate?"

"Nah. My dancing partner."

She and Garr shared a laugh. It was good to match wits with somebody. Bosch and Tevix were alright, but neither was much for joking around. With Bosch, it was the age gap and the difference in upbringing: R'ala had always been interested in the arts, and had been a woman of the galaxy by the time she was eighteen. Bosch was a thug from some backwater world who just happened to be in charge of something these days, and their relationship was based on necessity: Bosch certainly wasn't going to be performing difficult slices on his own anytime soon, and R'ala wasn't going to be pulling credits out of the ether.

With Tevix, it was a species gap. Not that R'ala had anything against befriending beings of all kinds, but Tevix was the only Zabrak she'd ever gotten to know, and it hadn't been easy. Not much occasion to mingle with the pilot while hopping from system to system, job to job, and Tevix seemed to enjoy the violent parts of the work well enough to instigate it whenever she got the chance. R'ala was no model of morality, but she preferred to bring all of her limbs, digits, and organs home with her each night.

"Charmed," R'ala said. "But I was under the impression that your boss was meeting us here to retrieve this thing."

"Don't know who told you that," Garr said. "You never met him before, so why would you now? Also, we were under the impression that you were a hired goon, not the one who decides what's what."

 _Ah. Back to their old selves_. The Bith tightened his grip on the blaster. Intimidation 101.

R'ala signaled to the droid to give the footlocker to Garr and F'tudal. The droid pushed the hoverlift across the room, and Garr set his hand on the metal.

"That's the one. Thanks, miss."

"Fork over the credits."

Garr gave his half-smile again without looking up. He flicked a ten-credit chip over the hoverlift, and it landed at the toe of R'ala's shoe. _Blasted heels. No way I'm taking them on in this getup._

"That's a tip for you," Garr said. "Convenience fee. Our boss will transfer the rest of the creds to your boss's account."

"Not the deal."

Garr looked at F'tudal. "This girl probably wants to get out of this place," he said. "I don't think it's to her taste."

Honestly, she had no idea what Bosch and Client 5 had discussed privately, only what Bosch had told her she was supposed to do. This might have been a modified deal between them. Or Bosch may have sold her out as a joke, or for extra credits. _Dammit, R'ala. How did you get here? How do you keep letting yourself end up like this?_

R'ala heard the ding of the lift behind her. Good, she thought. Maybe security's been listening in, and are keen to avoid a scuffle. These floors don't keep themselves clean.

She turned, and off the lift came someone who definitely wasn't Shardi. He wore a black helmet alright, but it was one like the old TIE pilots wore, and the rest of him was shelled in tough-looking black armor. He wore gray leather gloves, one of which slowly aimed a long-barreled weapon that R'ala recognized even from this distance.

A Merr-Sonn Munitions RPS-6 rocket launcher.

The two goons hit the deck, but R'ala was frozen. She barely heard the rocket leave the chamber.

Client 5 was scheduled to receive a visitor within the next standard hour.

Shardi, Vexen's security captain, swept through the lobby. "Hey," she said to the receptionist. "Client 5 is a real _sleemo_. All hands on deck for whoever his visitor is. Look sharp, Glyn."

Glyn instinctively straightened up in her seat. She'd seen firefights before, but none had ever made it into the building. Shardi's detail had always taken care of things before it came to that. In their black, orb-like helmets, Shardi and her people reminded Glyn of the images she'd seen of the old Imperial stormtroopers. She wondered how they would have done against each other. All the time she spent behind the desk gave her plenty of occasion to think about history and war-gaming, piecing together scenarios in her head and resolving them before the end of shift.

Glyn looked over at Shardi. "Does this visitor know Client Five is about to con them?"

Shardi was quiet for a moment. "Not our business."

"There's no way that human was the client. He and the Bith are stooges. You know what stooges look like."

The pause again.

"Yep."

Shardi didn't care. Being captain of the tower meant being on shift all the time. Her home was a studio-sized room in the workers' quarters, and the extent of her social life was the occasional afternoon drink in the basement bar. She barely ever crossed that bridge. Vexen dressed its employees like identical droids, and Shardi, for one, had learned to act the part. Getting involved meant getting fired. Or fired _at._

Glyn wasn't sure if she cared either. She hadn't much reason to. This was just her job, and although it was a serious one that she could say very little about elsewhere, she didn't live in the tower. Vexen didn't own her. But she couldn't help puzzling out people's secrets, predicting their moves ahead of time, how conflicts would be resolved. It wouldn't take a master war-gamer to outsmart the two goons Shardi had just escorted to Client 5's room, that was for sure.

In came the escort with the client's visitor. She was a human with a pile of brown curls, acne-scarred cheeks, dark eyes with thin lashes. Shardi directed her to the reception desk, and she looked right at Glyn.

 _R'ala?_

"Hi," R'ala said.

 _What do I say? What are you doing here?_ Then Glyn remembered the helmet. There was no way R'ala could tell who she was. _The most familiar face in the galaxy to me._ _Would you even recognize my face now?_

"Yes," Glyn said, her stomach churning. "Name?"

They went through the motions, and before Glyn knew it, R'ala was gone – whisked up the tower on the lift. She stared at the spot where R'ala had just been. Her face, right there. Her feet on those exact tiles. Her voice in this very room. Did she ever figure that Glyn would still be right where R'ala left her? Not in this job, of course – not even on this side of the planet – but what would R'ala say if she knew Glyn hadn't gone off-world in years?

Minutes went by. She didn't know how many. Fifty notifications popped onto her screens.

"Six-four-four, do you copy?" One of the techs in the security office.

Glyn shot to life again. "Yes. Sorry. Minor equipment issue."

"Nothing's showing up on my screens. What's the issue?"

 _Dammit, Glyn. You're better than this. Just like playing ArcSong or any other war game – never make a move without thinking._

"All green now. Thanks, Jav."

"Don't thank me. Seal the entrance."

Glyn looked up. A guest was already inside, but no one was scheduled to arrive for another hour. Where were Shardi's people?

The armored guest made a beeline for her. She tried to activate security measure, but she knew by the confidence in the guest's walk that he'd sliced into them before even entering the lobby.

Glyn had a blaster behind the desk, but there was no point; she wouldn't win against an opponent like this, and taking that risk without knowing whether he needed her alive was out of the question.

He grabbed her by the back of the collar and heaved her over the desk with one hand. No way to tell what kind of being this guy was, but he was strong.

"Apologies," he said in a mechanical-sounding voice. "But I need to borrow you."

 _Good move not drawing the blaster._

He kept his grip on her collar and didn't allow her to get her bearings. He dragged her to the lift, her boots sweeping across the floor. Inside, he placed her in front of the lift's keypad.

"Penthouse suite, if you don't mind."

So he did need her after all. With all of his slicing skill, he couldn't find his way around the built-in security of the tower's computer systems. Normally, she would have used this as leverage and somehow gotten through to Shardi, and this guy would have been toast in under a minute. But he was going where R'ala was. No way she could risk being killed now.

She punched in the code for Client 5's floor, and the lift shot upward.

"Thanks," he said. The calm in his voice set Glyn on edge. As if the heavy artillery racked on his belt weren't enough. "Gonna need you to stay in the lift when we get to the top, though." He pressed her against the back wall so that they were facing each other. Getting a good look now, Glyn still couldn't see his face. They were on even ground as far as identity was concerned.

 _Nope. I'm one move ahead._

"I think I saw you on a trading card," Glyn said.

Silence.

"Tak Artur, right? The bounty hunter."

More silence. That was a yes.

"I have a lot of time to study," she said.

The bounty hunter turned his head to look at the lift's computer, as if willing the lift to speed up. He changed the subject. "What are you?"

"Theelin."

A pause. "Got those weird horns."

"Know a lot of Theelins?"

"Just from trading cards," he said. She sensed a sly smile under that mask. It didn't please her. The Mid and Inner Rims habitually fetishized Theelin. They were a rare species everywhere but the outskirts of the galaxy; since living on Haidoral Prime, Glyn had seen none of her own kind, but always saw ads featuring animated versions of her people dancing on poles, smoking deathsticks in suggestive ways, even sipping on hard drinks that would have been poisonous to them in real life. Sometimes, Glyn was glad for her helmet.

"Why come here?" Tak Artur asked.

"Came here with a friend," she said. "Friend left me." She started to think about past days with R'ala, until she remembered that this lift was bringing her closer to R'ala by the second. But it was also bringing this man with a rocket launcher closer to her. A horrible thought crept in: _Is R'ala his target?Does someone want her dead?_

"Tough break," he said. The lift began to decelerate as their floor came up. "You're going to get a fresh start after today, though. No need to worry about this place anymore."

 _What?_

The lift halted, and the door shot open. Tak Artur motioned to Glyn to stay put, then unholstered the weapon she was most afraid he'd use. R'ala was there, through a weak glass door, a service droid behind her, oblivious. Glyn couldn't shout. Couldn't do a thing.

The rocket soared past R'ala's ear, and she realized that this enemy wasn't here for her. The rocket itself was meant to send the room into confusion, though it wasn't clear whether he planned on letting her escape. No way she could risk it, plus the footlocker still needed to be delivered, or the penalty would be on her.

Only one choice.

R'ala ran for the window, which the rocket had shattered, past the torched furniture, ears fuzzy and ringing. She cleared the jagged teeth of glass left in the window's frame, and the air took her.

Glyn saw R'ala dive out the window just as Shardi and her people arrived on a second lift.

"Bastard shut down our comms," Shardi said. "Had no idea what was going on."

Tak Artur spun to face the guards, lobbing off a couple of shots with a side blaster and hitting one in the gut. He crumpled, clutching at the wound. As the hunter was distracted with security, the human and the Bith fastened grappling hooks to the lip of the window and hurled themselves over the side of the building.

"I suggest surrender," Artur said to the security group.

Shardi's remaining officers dropped their weapons. Shardi, without hesitation, unsheathed her baton and charged. It was then that Glyn realized just how massive Artur's body was; you could've built a Star Destroyer out of him.

Artur quickly winded Shardi with an elbow to the chest, and tossed her aside. He then turned to Glyn and motioned to her with a calm wave of the hand. He wanted her to come with him.

She stood. For a moment, she envisioned diving for one of the security officer's blasters and letting the scum have it. Glyn had training. Her mother, once a warrior, had hardened her as a child. Glyn and R'ala had kept each other sharp throughout the years, sparring in the harshest climates they could find, even holding tiebreakers in R'ala's quarters right here on H-Prime.

No time to think about that now.

Even if she could hit Artur, that armor was meant to absorb shots of even higher caliber than these New Republic standard-issue weapons. The thought of fighting him like this, especially in her unwieldy uniform, was a joke.

She made her way out of the lift and over to him.

"We're taking the fast way down," he said, revealing his own grappling hook, wound through a high-tech device on his wrist. "I hope your grip is good."

Garr and F'tudal, whose names Artur had shared with Glyn on the brief journey down the face of Vexen Tower, were only halfway across the bridge when the duo caught up to them.

"Holding still is recommended," Artur called to them. His way of dealing with people was grinding Glyn's gears. Apparently, the hunter had been at it so long that putting energy into threatening enemies was beneath him.

The human kept running, while the Bith turned around and drew his blaster. He popped off a few bolts, which zinged past Glyn and came closer to hitting her than Artur. The Bith's blaster was designed for close-range situations and intimidation, not for a duel with a professional.

Artur drew a custom-made rifle and fired off a single vicious shot that sheared through the Bith's head, and that was that.

From his other wrist, he fired a trip-cable that caught the human around the legs and brought him down, face-first, onto the cement.

Artur calmly approached the man with Glyn in tow. "Len Rokk," he said, "Pseudonym Garr. Pretty good price on your head. Care to cooperate?"

In minutes, the trio – Glyn, Tak Artur, and the now-cooperative Garr – were standing in front of Artur's small shuttle in the local bay. No one gave them so much as a sideways look.

"It is regrettable," said Artur, "but I'll need a sentry to watch over the prisoner while I'm flying. Upon delivering him to the proper folks, I'll leave you at our destination, no harm done."

Glyn felt her fingers digging into her palm.

"This is my home."

He hesitated, waiting for the shuttle ramp to descend. Once it hit the ground and the ship's mechanisms quieted, he turned to Glyn and said, "No, it isn't."


End file.
